


Burlesque

by Azaelea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Clueless Sherlock, Creepy Murders, Crime, Cute confused Sherlock, Drama, Fluffy Times, Humour, Love, M/M, Nice Donovan, Romance, Scotland Yard, Serial Killers, Sherlock and John being cute, Snarky John, Snarky Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaelea/pseuds/Azaelea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet walk in the night leads to all sorts of surprises for Sherlock and John, involving a certain DI Lestrade, various stockings, and a copy cat murderer or a few on the loose. </p><p>Just another one of those average happenings, then, John supposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Copy Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I take no responsibility for any ensuing silliness. That was ALL the DI’s fault.  
> Well, mostly. Also, nothing belongs to me. 
> 
> A/N: This is sort of set sometime before the start of season 2.

London had never looked more normal as night fell on the city, the lights blocking out celestial bodies, the bustling metropolis never truly asleep.  
This night, in particular, the streets were as normal on a Saturday night; people clubbing, parties on, shows and movies, the never-ending flood of people bustling past 221b Baker Street providing little entertainment for one particular consulting Detective, who, sitting at his window and talking about how mundane everyone is, was driving his partner in crime – that is, crime solving – completely up the wall.

“SHERLOCK! No, you know what, never mind,” John flung the newspaper he had now attempted to read for the past hour away, and looked up to meet the dark gaze of his best friend and lover. He _still_ wasn’t used to calling him the latter title.

It was new.

Sometimes, he thought, it was getting old.

“You are annoyed,” Sherlock said, and he looked a little proud that he had managed to pick out that emotion quite well, but was taken aback when his partner’s eye’s narrowed,

“Clearly,” John muttered, getting to his feet and pushing the little table that held his laptop away from him, running a hand through his already messy blonde hair, “I need some air,” he said, turning around. He was there alarmed as he turned towards the door to see his consulting detective blocking it, having never seen him move in the first place.  
“When the – never mind,” John stopped his questions before it could start, “What are you doing Sherlock?” he asked instead, using his controlled voice that indicated he was _really_ beginning to lose his cool,

“I am blocking your path,” Sherlock replied, “because it is far too late for a dignified doctor to be wandering the streets as if he has nothing better to do,”

John cocked his head to side, trying to decipher if the man was serious,

“Really?” he asked and Sherlock nodded, in a manner that looked sincere. Still, one could never tell when it came to him, so John chose a different tack, “It’s stuffy in here, and I need some air,” Sherlock considered this,  
“I’ll come with you,” he said, and the Doctor tried to keep the fact that Sherlock was sometimes like a child despite his huge intelligence, and wasn’t trying to be insufferable, at the forefront of his mind.  
  
“No you won’t,” John affirmed in a level tone and turned away and walked instead to the stairs leading up to his – _their_ bedroom, not caring if the detective was going to let him leave or follow him up.

It had been almost a month and a half since their last case, and John was, and he never thought he’d say this, praying for someone to be killed in a really suspicious way. Or at least have the decency, if they were going to commit suicide, to do it so that it looked like a murder, if only to provide momentary amusement to the detective.  
  
The doctor was forced to pull every trick in the book when times such as these hit. Almost two years and there was still no putting up with the petulant, and genius detective he was pleased to say he was quite in love with. And if _he_ couldn’t put up with the detective, he wondered how Mrs. Hudson had for years, never mind Sherlock’s own family.

John had actually _volunteered_ to take extra shifts at the clinic, took every opportunity to go out with DI Greg Lestrade and even took extra amounts of time to fight with those _ruddy_ machines at Tesco’s just so that he didn’t have to hear one more loud exclamation of boredom. Or how extremely boring people, in general, were.

John walked to the wardrobe in their room and opened it, finding the massive and warm jacket Mycroft Holmes had bought for him this Christmas. It turned out he approved of his relationship with his brother and had “seen it coming from a mile off,” apparently.  
John had spent the entire dinner blushing after that because Mrs. Hudson had joined in with Mycroft’s teasing of Sherlock. Which inadvertently lead to teasing John. 

He had no idea that Mrs. Hudson would even know jokes of that sort.

Doing the buttons up, John turned to go down the stairs, waked straight into the inspirations of his musing, and promptly swore rather loudly.

“I’m coming,” the detective repeated, rather unfazed by his doctor’s obvious attempts to get rid of him, “Who knows, John!” Sherlock stepped around the doctor and yanked his own greatcoat off the hanger, and shoved himself into it, all debonair, charming, and mysterious.

Not that the doctor was any more inclined to forgive the man his eccentricities because of his those particular attributes.  
  
The detective continued, “We might get lucky and see a crime in progress!” to this John muttered his ascent of, “I hope we do,”  
Sherlock beamed at him, “that’s the spirit, John! Come on!” and without any further ado, the detective swept out of the room, leaving John wondering if now would be a good time to tell him that he would really appreciate a moments warning before he did that.  
  
The wind seemed to blast into them as they stepped out onto the street, after the warmth of the hallway and John pulled his jacket closer around him, surprised when Sherlock linked their arms together like a Victorian couple out for a midnight stroll.  
  
As if on cue, the sound of a clock tower chiming midnight rang out and John smiled at the coincidence.

“So, where are we going?” Sherlock asked and John raised an eyebrow,

“You’re asking me?” he asked,

“Do you need a check up on your hearing?” Sherlock asked, somewhat sarcastically, though there was no venom in it,

“Shut up,” John muttered,

“Retort of the desperate,” the detective quipped and knew John was giving him another one of those glares.

Together, they continued to walk down the street, going at an easy pace, the tide of people ebbing somewhat as people seemed to realise the next day was a working day, heading in the direction of Regents Park.  
Neither talked as they walked on, Sherlock observing the scenes around him and John tightening his hold on the detective, lacing their fingers together, both gloved and warm.

Together they entered the park and John could almost feel the peace settle upon him like a blanket. The grass was dark, lit a vivid green wherever there was a lamppost, the trees were sighing and bending in a steady but gentle wind that would keep sensible people in their beds, sound asleep.

The peace did not last for very long, however.

John turned to tell Sherlock _maybe_ it wasn’t such a bad thing that he had accompanied him, when his sharp eyes caught movement about one hundred and fifty metres away from where they were standing.

Sherlock felt him shift and met his gaze, “What’s wrong?” he asked immediately, sensing more than seeing any change in John,  
“Behind you, there’s something happening. Doesn’t look good,”

A slightly stronger gust of wind hit them as they slowed right down and Sherlock turned to where John’s blue eyes were fixed.

There, across the grass and between the trees, there appeared to be a woman and a man, and she was looking like she really didn’t want to be there at all.  
As the couple watched, she battered the man’s hand away from what looked like her waist and made to turn around, but he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

Sherlock glanced back at John, “I suppose this means we’re not going to continue our walk?” he actually sounded a little disappointed. John filed that away from later dissection before breaking away from the main path, his boots crunching fallen leaves underfoot as he did so, his hand still holding onto Sherlock’s and just in time too.

The girl broke away from her assailant and was now fleeing the scene, her coat flying open as she ran, clearly struggling in the high heels she was wearing. The man gave chase and Sherlock grinned, “run!” he didn’t give John a chance to catch-up mentally before he dragged the doctor forward and they were quickly catching up to the slightly unlikely scene.

The scene had taken place on a parallel path and John and Sherlock ran onto it, seeing the girl running helter skelter, her scarf falling off as she did so, hitting her chaser in the face and causing him to trip over as it tangled his feet,  
“Take care of him!” John yelled at Sherlock, the pair quickly catching up and Sherlock huffed,  
‘Where are you going?”

“Get the girl,” John repressed a smirk at the slightly jealous light that any remote competition brought into his partner’s eyes, picking up the pace and leaping right over the dazed man on the ground.

The woman was still running, clearly in too great a panic to check whether the booted footfalls behind her were still her assaulter.  
  
The ex-army medic had no trouble whatsoever catching up to the woman who was limping slightly, and placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her underneath a lamp, right at the crossroads of Queen Mary’s Gardens.

The girl screamed and John shushed her, “It’s okay!” he said, as she struggled to get out of his grip.  
He almost lost his grip as he received an elbow to the gut,  
‘HEY! Look behind you,” he wheezed.

At this she seemed to register this was _not_ the same man who had been chasing her initially and she turned around, her eyes widening as she caught sight of John’s slightly doubled over and panting form, straightening slowly.  
John winced again as he stood straight, sure now the woman had seen he meant her no harm.

He looked up to meet her dark eyes and then it was his eyes that widened almost comically, for there, in that brightly lit crossroad stood a sight the good doctor would never forget.

Wearing fishnet stockings held up by a garter, heels that were at least three inches high, a tight corset in shades of black and red and a black curly wig that gave the impression of a very well built model, stood Detective Inspective Greg Lestrade, no amount of makeup being able to hide his features from his best mate.

Both men stared at each other, John’s hand still resting on the DI’s shoulder, the DI’s coat still open, and in the incredibly well lit area, it left absolutely nothing to the imagination for John.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, the DI cleared his throat, his cheeks and neck hot and flushed at the look of sheer – _shock? –_ on the Doctor’s face.  
“I can e-explain,” he finally stuttered but John’s expression remained unchanged, his eyes looking like oceans of confusion.

Then Sherlock caught up to them, the man who had attacked the ‘woman’ having been secured to a tree and well and truly knocked out,  
 “Well John, how are we - ” he stopped when he took in the situation and looked at John who stared at Sherlock as if he were at a complete loss for words. The DI shifted uncomfortably.

And that was when Sherlock burst out into uncontrolled laughter, the sound so uncharacteristically loud and uncontrolled, it shocked both his companions out of their impasse and echoed around them. John managed a chuckle himself as he fully understood the situation,

“You had better be able to explain,” he said, turning back to the DI, who let out a massive sigh of relief that John didn’t take a picture and have it on Facebook in seconds.  
The DI watched as Sherlock leaned on John, struggling to regain his composure.

Lipstick coated lips frowned and the DI flipped his hair back, pulling his coat around him, hiding the sight that did come as a bit of a shock, making John do a double take, unable to fit this image with the normally well dressed and most definitely straight Lestrade he had always known.

Managing to keep his incredulity and amusement and shock, _not sure which one is taking the lead,_ John titled his head to the side. There was a moment’s pause, then,  
 “So,” he finally managed, “here we are,”  
Was there any possible way to get around the fact that the DI was dressed like a – like a…John blushed.

Sherlock, meanwhile, finally managed to compose himself and looked at the DI, “Lestrade, I never had you pegged for a --” he didn’t get to finish his sentence because John elbowed him in the side as the DI glowered, and sighed. The inspector seemed to be considering the men in front of him,  
“Look, I’m grateful that you got that guy off my back but I’d prefer to get home now,” he somehow managed to look a little bit dignified as he said it. 

John nodded, and then, keeping an entirely straight face, asked,  
“Do you need an escort home madam?”

That set Sherlock off again and John started chuckling himself, as Lestrade sighed, seemingly unable to come up with a better response, “If I let you walk me home, no talking about this _incident_ after tonight,” he paused, “and no, I don’t want to know what you were doing out here this late,”  
“Could ask you the same,” Sherlock cut in, raising an eyebrow slightly, and was completely ignored,  
“Do you promise not to bring this up?” the DI finished, “in front of anyone?”  
“We can’t promise any such thing,” John said, “Unless you tell us what is going on,”

“I couldn’t possibly-”                                                                                                                                       
“Listen, you,” John cut him off and was about to carry on before all three men were dragged out of their conversation by a screech of tyres and a loud yell, from some other side of the park.

“We need to get out of here, they were with that nut job who decided that I would make a wonderful trophy to take home,” the tension had returned to the DI’s shoulders, “they’re bigger, stronger and completely sloshed,”

Neither Sherlock nor John had to be told twice. Lestrade reached down and yanked his heels off and together, the three of them jogged out of the park, a million questions and a lot of unspoken explanations hanging in the still night air.

 

* * *

 

The DI, John and Sherlock collapsed onto the couch with a loud sigh of relief, after having run through the city to get to the DI’s flat. They had drawn a few odd looks but their main aim having been to get away from whoever it was had been chasing them, they didn’t mind.

“We should go for more midnight strolls John,” Sherlock said with a small grin,

“Yes well, if it means getting more blackmail on Greg, sure,” John grinned right back. The DI who was slumped in between his two friends growled,

“Shut up or I won’t make you any tea,” he pushed himself into a sitting position and waited for John and Sherlock to do the same, “so I assume you’d like those explanations now?” he looked from blue to grey eyes,

“Very much,” John replied while Sherlock pushed himself into a better sitting position. The DI took a deep breath and began,

“It’s a case you see, and, well…” he seemed to struggle to find the words, “they chose me because apparently…”  
“For the love of-” John started but was cut off with a glare from the DI who then finished the sentence in a rush, as if saying it fast might make it easier, “becauseapparentlyihadthebestbodyevenwhenweincludedthefemalemembersofstaff” he said, not stopping to take a breath and John could feel a smile on his face, despite the fact that he knew it would not endear Lestrade to him,  
“What?” he asked but it was Sherlock who answered,  
“He said he had the best body,” the consulting detective looked smug, and John decided to give the poor DI a break.

“Carry on,” the doctor said to the now blushing DI. He cleared his throat and went on,  
“So there’s this man, and he seems to have taken a leaf out of Jack the Ripper’s book, and is targeting strippers and prostitutes,”  
“Killing them?” John asked, curiosity piqued,  
“Yes” Lestrade frowned, and his eyes darkened, “butchers them,”  
“And you haven’t found anything yet?” Sherlock asked, shifting on the sofa to allow the DI to meet the full and proper inspection of his sharp grey eyes, now they were in the bright and warm flat,  
“No,” the DI sighed, “we were going to call you in, only we didn’t think it was quite…your field of expertise,”  
“Any murder is his field,” John muttered which brought a small smile to the DI’s lips, as he returned to the story,  
“Anyway, we’ve searched CCTV, we’ve searched on the ground, asking women who were working with the three victims. They’re all, erm,” the DI searched for an appropriate term, “ _stationed_ in different parts of the city,”  
“I can hear a but,” John said and the DI nodded,  
“There is a but. They all grew up in the same west end area of London, which suggests --”  
“That the killer is possibly known to all three women,” Sherlock cut in and Lestrade nodded,  
“Exactly,” Lestrade rubbed a tired hand across his eyes and John felt a spike of anger at how hard the Yard had his friend working.

“So what’s the hold up with the investigation? And why the drag?” with the last question John motioned to the clothes the DI was still wearing,  
“Well, all suspects frequent a certain strip club, and all three of the victims, though no longer employed, did work there.”  
“So we are assuming that they are related through the club?” John asked, and Lestrade nodded,  
“Yes,”  
“And you are attempting to see if you can draw the attacker out by acting as the bait,” Sherlock added and Lestrade turned to nod at him,  
“Precisely. However, this is where the investigation has stalled. We have been at it for a week,”

John let out a snort of amusement before he could stop himself, “You’ve been pole dancing for a _week?_ ”  
The DI flushed and broke eye contact, suddenly uncomfortable squished on the couch with them, “I haven’t been pole dancing,” he stated somewhat weakly,  
“Oh my god! You have!” John exclaimed as the laughter got the best of him and he nearly fell off the couch as a new wave of laughter was brought on by the images he had conjured in his mind. Meanwhile the DI felt like he may be the first person to actually die from the shame of a moment.

Sherlock on the other hand, got to his feet, “let us come with you,” he stated as he began pacing the length of the lounge room, the gears in his mind already whirring at a furious rate.  
“Come with me?” the DI asked incredulously, “are you mad?”  
“We’ve dealt with worse before,” said a recovered John and a weight seemed to press down on John’s chest, repressing the laughter quickly, as he remembered the jacket filled with explosives, the red dots on Sherlock and the deafening fear that they were both going to die that night. He blinked to clear his mind as he forcefully brought himself back to the situation at hand. Lestrade seemed to have noted where John’s mind had wandered and he reached out and placed a comforting hand on the doctor’s arm,

“I know,” he said, removing his hand as he realised that Sherlock had stopped pacing and now had the exact look a tiger might have, should anyone dare to touch its mate, directed at him, “but it’s not that. The department doesn’t want outsiders in on this case,”  
“We were in on nearly every other case last year,” John said and Lestrade nodded,  
“I know, it’s the higher ups…”  
“We’ll do it unofficially, no need for a payment,” Sherlock has resumed his pacing and was not looking at either of the men on the couch as he spoke, “I believe this will be simple to solve, just allow me on the scene,”

Lestrade considered for a moment, “very well,” he said, “but I’m warning you Sherlock, if you blow my cover you will never work with Scotland Yard again,”  
“Deal,” John replied before his partner could allow his outrage to be known, “we won’t blow it mate,”  
“You’d better not,” Lestrade said darkly, also getting to his feet, “now, if you’ll excuse me for ten minutes, I _need_ to get out of these stockings,”

That just sent John into another fit of laughter no matter how much he attempted to clamp down on it while Sherlock didn’t even acknowledge he had heard anything from the DI as he was completely lost in his own thoughts.

 

* * *

 

It was twenty minutes later that Lestrade emerged from the bedroom in his pyjamas to find Sherlock still pacing and John reading the Yard’s newsletter.   
“You’ve made the front page at least,” John smirked as he turned the page around to show Lestrade, who was standing there looking rather put out that John had found the article about him,  
“Thankfully, it’s about the last case and not the current one,” Lestrade replied,  
“They describe you as clean cut, polite and efficient,” the doctor went on, “obviously they don’t know you,”  
“For that, I’ll put salt in your tea,” Lestrade grumbled as he waked over to the kitchen,  
“It was definitely worth it!” John chuckled as he reclined back on the couch and shifted his gaze to Sherlock who continued with his restless pacing.  
Even from this distance, John found himself entranced by the fire that danced in his partner’s eyes, so full of life that life itself seemed to dull in comparison. So uniqu; and even then, thought the doctor, it was only the tip of the ice burg when it came to the sheer brilliance of the detective’s mind.

“If you’re quite done with ogling Sherlock, how much sugar would you like?” John was snapped out of his musing and brought back to Lestrade with a tray bearing tea and biscuits,  
“The way to my heart, DI,” John grinned as he took a cup and added the sugar himself,  
“hmmph,” was the reply the doctor got however, as the strain of the day started to show.

John turned to look properly at Lestrade and the amusement that had been present since their meeting faded as he took in the clear signs of too much stress and work. There were dark circles under the DI’s eyes and his breathing was both too shallow and seemed to be rather a lot of work considering that it was a subconscious act. He also seemed to be experiencing a significant amount of pain at the base of his neck and between his shoulder blades, judging by the way that he kept moving his shoulders and didn’t seem comfortable in his seat.

“Greg, how much sleep have you been getting?” John asked, changing gears into doctor mode. The DI turned to look at John,  
“Don’t you go all doctor-y on - ” John cut him off,  
“It’s as much my life as it is my profession. Tell me Greg, how much sleep have you been getting lately?” the DI looked momentarily sheepish,  
“About three to four hours,” he didn’t meet John’s gaze though and the doctor narrowed his eyes, suspicious now,  
“A night?” he prompted, and his suspicions were confirmed as Lestrade sighed and said,  
“Every other night,”

John grimaced and it was only his professionalism that stopped him from starting a telling off he usually only reserved for when Sherlock was being a complete idiot about his own health.

“Greg, go to bed now. And I’m staying here, so don’t you dare try and set the alarm for anything earlier that ten, because I’ll break the clock and put you back in bed,”  
Greg managed a wry smile, “Lucky Sherlock’s off on his mind crime solving thing, because that didn’t sound suggestive or anything,”  
“You’re not helping me change my mind,” said John, though he was still smiling, “go to bed,” the DI sighed and got to his feet,  
“If you insist - ”  
“I do,”  
“ – I’ll to bed.”  
“There’s a good detective,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in my previous story, Bed of Roses posted on Fanfiction, there was a scene that Lestrade had to dress up as a woman to avoid their capture and provide a distraction. There was a really positive reaction to it so I thought what the hell, let’s write something based on that, and get back onto the writing scene. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, there will be more :D
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> P.S This story HAS been pre-planned so even if there are LONG gaps ( I'm so sorry ) between updates, I swear I won't abandon it. Have mercy, it's my first week at Uni as a first year. I will try <3


	2. Set Up

Morning dawned bright and sunny on Lestrade's apartment, the motes of dust drifting lazily across the sitting room, the only occupant sprawled across the couch. The whole place spoke of contentment and rest, and it would have lasted many hours more if it wasn't for Sherlock kicking the door open.

The boom of the door crashing against the wall jerked John awake, his neck making a horrible cracking sound as he started violently. There was a yell from upstairs and quick footsteps before the pyjama clad DI emerged at the foot of the stairs holding a gun.  
Sherlock looked vaguely amused at the looks of irritation and incredulity he was receiving from the doctor and the DI.

There was a beat of silence.

"What the bloody hell are you destroying my door for?" Lestrade's voice told only of great irritation as he holstered his gun and stepped forward, glaring at the consulting detective with all the venom he could manage at -

"Seven o'clock Sherlock," John's voice was sleep affected and it had the sound of a man who was really not pleased.

"The time is hardly relevant to what I came to tell you, John. At least, not yet," he stated in a matter of fact tone, his greatcoat adding flair to his movements, making him look like he really did have a point for waking them up, John thought.

It didn't have the same effect on Lestrade, but then, he was less biased.

"Shut up," the detective inspector muttered, dropping onto the couch on top of John's legs, not particularly bothered by the yelp from the doctor, "John might be all  _awwww Sherlock. Whatever you say_  because he is sodding whipped, but I'm not,"

"Greg, as your doctor, I sincerely advise you get off my legs," John growled, and Lestrade glanced towards him,

"Funny. I'm not even a little bit intimidated,"

"John, I've got it!" Sherlock demanded their attention once more and they both turned to face him again, John's blue eyes slightly unfocussed with sleep and Lestrade's baleful,

"Got what?" the doctor asked, too used to such occurrences to be truly annoyed at Sherlock

"I've narrowed it down. Where these idiots at Scotland Yard overlooked a vital key,"

"You do realise you're in  _one of those idiots_ flat, right?" Lestrade muttered dryly.

The consulting detective ignored him, and instead began to pace and talk, "Three suspects. Harry Lewis, James Morecombe, and Samuel Blake. All three men grew up in the neighbourhood where all three women used to work. We already were aware that the women knew the men and the  _only_  link you thought to investigate was the club. For people such as you, that would be the most obvious place to start. But, Detective Inspector, you  _should_  have paid attention to where the women grew up," Sherlock stopped so that his sharp grey eyes were focused on the DI, "If you had, you would know there was only one of them that could possibly be the killer,"

Lestrade spluttered indignantly but wasn't allowed to protest as Sherlock sped on,

"Harry Lewis." Sherlock announced and Lestrade forgot to be annoyed at being woken and instead directed his annoyance towards Sherlock for his choice,

"Harry Lewis is unstable and has past offences against women, but he has an ironclad alibi! He was our least likely suspect!" Lestrade scoffed,

"Does he?" Sherlock shot back, his eyebrows rising ever so slightly at the apparent stupidity the DI was displaying,

"He was at a club  _on the other side of the city_  with three other people for all the three murders! Apparently he goes clubbing nearly every night," Lestrade frowned at the consulting detective,

"Did you bother to check  _who_  those three other people were?"

"Of course we did," Lestrade ground out.

"One of them is a cocaine addict,"

"How - "

"His sleeve has the holes that would be generated from a needle straight through the clothing, just above his elbow," Sherlock replied quickly, once more cutting the DI off, "therefore, his testimony would not hold up, as he would collapse under the prosecution's examination," Sherlock paused, "The second witness, Inspector, claims he was with the suspect. Yet I have information he was not with the suspect at the time of the last two killings, because he was in the back room for further –ah – services,"

Lestrade looked surprised but resigned to his fate of always being outdone by the consulting detective, "and the final member?"

"Dead," Sherlock replied and Lestrade's eyebrow's nearly disappeared into the messy fringe that formed quite naturally,

"What?!" he exclaimed, but was not alone in his exclamation. John finally chimed in and propped himself up on one elbow so as to get a better look at his detective, "How, Sherlock?"

"I do not know," the detective confessed, eyes thrown into shadow as the early morning rays began to light the room, "I can tell you cause of death – hanging, but I cannot tell you why he would chose to kill himself,"

Lestrade got to his feet and rubbed a hand across his eyes, "I'll need to get into the Yard with this information. We need to arrest Lewis,"

"I don't think you should," Sherlock waited until the DI met his gaze,

"Why not?"

"Because if he has access to a good lawyer and if the prosecution makes even one mistake, he will walk free," John cut in quietly and Sherlock's eyes locked onto his partner's. John felt his cheeks flush and the same light headed feeling he had grown to associate with the full intensity of Sherlock's stare. The hint of pride in the detective's eyes didn't help him any,

"Very good John," the detective very nearly purred and John had to literally focus his mind here and now to stop the sound of that deep, rich baritone heading directly south. He cleared his throat and managed to tear his eyes away from Sherlock and instead looked to the detective who was finishing with his message to Donovan, to get the body of the hanged man analysed, completely oblivious to the little scene played out between the two other men in the room.

He furrowed a brow as he looked back to Sherlock, "If we don't arrest him now, then what do we do?"

"We catch him in the act," the detective said simply and Lestrade sighed,

"We've tried that for a week,"

"You know you want to get back into that costume," John grinned and almost immediately winced as Lestrade's foot connected with his shin,

"Shut up,"

"He will come this time. At ten o'clock, Wednesday night, he will take the next woman. With some careful placement, that woman will be you, detective," this statement was met by an air of surprise.

"Sherlock, even you cannot possibly have deduced that just from his files," Lestrade's tone was disbelieving,

"No, but look at the days of the three previous murders," Sherlock pulled his phone out, pressed something and then handed it over to Lestrade. John pulled himself up so that he could read over the DI's shoulder.

There on the screen of the phone, were the phases of the moon, with Sherlock's neat writing, labelling the different phases with one of the victim's names.

"They we killed at the same time as the first appearances of one of the phases," Sherlock supplied, walking forward and point to the top of the page, "The first, at first quarter. The second, at the waxing crescent. The third, at new moon."

The DI and the doctor looked up into Sherlock's sombre eyes, able to guess what he was going to say next,

"Which means the next attack is going to be at…" Lestrade glanced down and John finished his sentence,

"Waning Crescent, which is going to be this Wednesday,"

"And moonrise is at ten o'clock," Sherlock added sharing a glance with the doctor,

"Astounding," John breathed and Sherlock allowed a small smile to grace his androgynous features.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and broke their moment by walking through them, towards the bathroom door, "I'm taking a shower, and then we'll head to Scotland Yard. We have to process all of this," John nodded while Sherlock turned and flopped down onto the couch,

"This case has all the features of a werewolf story," the doctor muttered and was rewarded by a chuckle from Lestrade who disappeared into the bathroom, the sound bouncing off the tiles,

"That  _would_ be our luck!"

* * *

The basement car park of Scotland Yard was dark and damp, built in the eighteen hundreds for storage purposes; it was yet to be updated. They'd been meaning to fix this particular problem for years but there was never enough time, manpower or money.

Officer James Brookes wished they would hurry up and get onto it as water dripped onto his glasses for the fourth time after getting out of his car and the dim yellow light struggled to illuminate anything further than a metre in front of him. He sighed aloud and took his glasses off to wipe them when he heard a thud and a muffled oath behind him. He mashed his glasses back onto his face, spinning, his heart thumping in his chest, startled, as he always came in alone,

"Hello?" he asked, his crisp tones resonating off the cement walls. He glanced left and right, but heard nothing more.

Then suddenly his vision exploded white as a sharp pain bloomed in his side and his mind reeled, breaths coming in short gasps. There were hot hands on his waist, holding his body in place, a warm breath on his neck, and pain, so much pain.

"Hello precious," the voice crooned softly into his ear and Brookes couldn't see anymore. He could just feel. Feel fear as he was lowered almost tenderly onto the ground. Feel the blood flowing out of him and onto the ground. He could do nothing as his assailant straddled him, but he could feel the smile before the attacker leant in towards his neck.

Then nothing.

* * *

"Come on Lestrade, how long does it take to shower?"

"He is currently applying soap to most of his body, I suggest you don't startle him or he'll drop the soap," Sherlock cut into John's teasing, no longer pacing, but hunched over on the couch, his fingers steeped together, his grey eyes focused straight ahead.

John raised an eyebrow but didn't question his partner, instead looking back at the door as Lestrade yelled back, "Shut up, I'm done!"

As the last echoes of his shout faded, he opened the door, buttoning up his shirt as he went, body still damp and hair dripping. He threw his towel at John who shook it off himself, half amused and half irritated as Lestrade laughed,

"Okay, let me get my gun and we'll get out of here," as he turned to go upstairs, an alarm blared through the room and Lestrade frowned, while John jumped then looked about trying to find the source,

"My phone's emergency call beacon," Lestrade muttered as he walked over to the phone and answered.

John observed as Lestrade's face became darker and darker, inquiring sentences turning to monosyllabic words, until he hung up. There was silence for a moment,

"What's happened?" John asked quietly and Lestrade turned wet eyes towards his mate, whose heart immediately sank at the expression on the DI's face,

"Brookes is dead."

John bowed his head, having met the senior officer before, and knowing the man; he felt himself slightly off balance, "how?" John asked, his voice breaking slightly,

"Stabbed," Lestrade swallowed hard, "we have to go now," he managed before taking off upstairs.

John looked to Sherlock, and was shocked to find steel grey eyes focussed directly on him. Sherlock normally didn't even respond when such things were reported, unless it was some needless smart arse comment. But this time, his partner looked…looked worried – but not for the case. For… _me?_ John managed a sad smile,

"We have work," he said and Sherlock got to his feet and shocked John again by wrapping warm arms around the doctor, and planting a small kiss on his jaw, before turning and walking out of the apartment. That was the second out of character thing the detective had done in as many days. If John wasn't worried before he was now.

"Let's go," Lestrade's tone was curt as re-emerged more composed, and he grabbed John and pulled him out the door in a fast paced walk, to the cab that Sherlock had waiting for them outside.

The ride to Scotland Yard was silent, all except for Sherlock's occasional muttering, his mind working on a plane of thought neither of his companions could comprehend.

Upon arrival they were greeted by the chief, who nodded at Lestrade and sent a cursory glance at Sherlock and John, "good thinking," he said to Lestrade before leading them silently inside, past the press gathered outside, news of an officers murder spreading like wildfire, even more so that he was killed in the very heart of the police force.

Downstairs they went, downstairs again and downstairs a third time before they emerged in a brightly lit basement, temporary floodlights set up to illuminate a sea of red and a man, spreadeagled and very, very dead staring at the ceiling with eyes that no longer saw.

Lestrade gagged at the blood and John very nearly did the same. Sherlock meanwhile pulled on the boots provided and the suit before walking carefully through the puddles of blood and dropping onto one knee.

John swallowed his revulsion and forced himself to follow.

"How could I be wrong?" Sherlock asked, more to himself, the syllables drawn out and lilting. John frowned, but before he could say anything a female voice rang out,

"Because you're human, genius," Donovan sounded both angry and saddened although the doctor could not tell whether that was towards Sherlock or the scene that greeted her,

"Donovan," Lestrade tried to assume his commanding voice, but was struggling and his subordinate's expression turned sympathetic. She walked to him slowly, heeled shoes clicking on the cold ground, and laid a hand on his shoulder, "You went to the academy together didn't you?" she asked. When he could only nod, she hugged him gently. John tore his eyes away, looking down instead,

"I'm sorry,"

The words were quiet, and unless they were spoken by the corpse itself, they could only have come from Sherlock,

"What?" John asked, his blue eyes widening in wonder,

"You are…hurting. I'm aware that social convention says that I should tell you I'm sorry. Though I see no basis in such a convention because it is not my fault that this man is dead, I feel I must say…sorry," John could not repress the smile, as he looked at Sherlock, who seemed to have confused himself with his own explanation and quickly got back to work, John's presence slipping into the background.

For a man so brilliant with mind games, so infallible in his deductions, he was completely, adorably clueless when it came to human interaction. But John just found himself more in love with the man all the same.

 _Love…love?! No, no, not love_.

The doctor was startled. Where had  _that_  thought come from? Kneeling here, in another colleague's blood, Sherlock examining the body closely, Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of the police force grieving and suddenly that thought popped up? But no, he couldn't…love the detective. The detective did not love back. What they had was nice but John was under no illusion that Sherlock loved his work and that his work would always come first. He had no permanent place in the detective's life. It would be a waste of energy to love the man. John looked back at Sherlock and dismissed the thoughts. There was work to be done. It must just have been a momentary lapse of emotion brought on by this death.

_Yes. Let's go with that._

Sherlock stood, "John have you finished your assessment?" he asked and John snapped back to the present problem, looking at the body,

"I should think it's rather obvious," he said, following Sherlock back to where Lestrade and Donovan stood, stoic and waiting for a verdict. He stood in front of the officers and waited for Sherlock to join them before carrying on, "He bled to death; there was the stab wound to the left side, no doubt severing the pulmonary artery, which, though under lower pressure, still cannot be staunched with immediate medical attention. He was left to bleed out on the floor," John looked to Sherlock who nodded,

"Perfect," John tried to stop the smile. He failed and so looked down at his shoes instead, feeling like a fourteen year old teenage girl. Donovan caught the smile and rolled her eyes, "but I think there is something of rather greater significance," Sherlock said and all eyes were back on the detective, who was regaining his excitement, his eyes bright, almost feverish, "There are two holes on his neck, about three centimetres apart,"

"Really? That wasn't on the report," Donovan didn't sound surprised though,

"Of course it wasn't. What your coroners miss could fill several tomes; anyway, I think we have a bigger problem,"

"Nice pick up," Lestrade said dryly, which Sherlock chose to ignore, or more probably, chose not to hear,

"I am not wrong about our burlesque case," he asserted sharply, as if guessing that was the next point Lestrade was going to raise, and he was right,

"He knows about that case!" Donovan exclaimed and she glanced at her boss who, despite the situation, coloured,

"Yes. Long story. Some other time," he said to her before turning back to Sherlock who was beginning to look impatient at being cut off, "what do you mean you were not wrong? Brookes was working the case _with_   _us_  Sherlock. He has clearly been targeted,"

"I'm not wrong," Sherlock insisted again and Lestrade looked to John, the doctor wearing a puzzled look on his face,

"But Sherlock - "

"These dullards know nothing John. Trust me," Sherlock held the doctor's gaze, "I am not wrong. The jack the ripper imitator will be there on Wednesday,"

"Then how the fuck do you explain this, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, reaching the end of his patience, gesturing to the corpse which was being covered and prepared to be taken away,

"I…have a theory. I need to test it,"

"There is a man lying dead," Donovan ground out, "and you're treating this like some sort of – of – of  _science_  experiment!"

"Yes" Sherlock replied simply and John held out a placating arm as Donovan prepared to tell Sherlock exactly where he could take his experiment and shove it up,

"Sally," his voice was calm, "he never does anything without reason. And the bloody diva likes the drama. He's not let us down yet," she looked at him, then at Lestrade, who grimaced but nodded. The female agent scoffed and threw her hands up, "fine! You lot play whodunit, I'm going to go and do some real police work,"

With that she stormed off and Lestrade sighed, folding his arms over his chest and looking down. He glanced up suddenly, and looking directly at John's blue orbs, he said, "you better be right Sherlock," and it was John who nodded, not Sherlock,

"He will be,"

They stared at each other a moment longer before Lestrade looked up to the detective, who was gazing at the body, looking completely lost in thought,

"Oi," he said and Sherlock turned, "what's the plan now?"

"We wait until Wednesday, go ahead with our plan. Catch the killer,"

"What do we do until then?"

Sherlock grinned then, "we start planning" he said and John couldn't resist,

"And detective, you'd better practice those dance moves of yours."

Despite it all, Lestrade smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> So in my previous story, Bed of Roses posted on Fanfiction, there was a scene that Lestrade had to dress up as a woman to avoid their capture and provide a distraction. There was a really positive reaction to it so I thought what the hell, let’s write something based on that, and get back onto the writing scene. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it, there will be more :D
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> P.S This story HAS been pre-planned so even if there are LONG gaps ( I'm so sorry ) between updates, I swear I won't abandon it. Have mercy, it's my first week at Uni as a first year. I will try <3


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